


Growing Up Boring

by ushauz



Series: In Life or Death [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Background Anders/Justice, F/F, Insecurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27764827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ushauz/pseuds/ushauz
Summary: Merrill always thought of herself as a very uninteresting person. She studied, she worked on the same project over and over, and she didn't have a soulmate. So really, what could she offer to Hawke?
Relationships: Female Hawke/Merrill (Dragon Age)
Series: In Life or Death [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031085
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	Growing Up Boring

Merrill grew up being the most boring First the Clans had ever heard of. She studied, mostly, and memorized the tales they had, which was good. But she didn’t spend a lot of time with people, which wasn’t a great sign for a First. A Keeper was supposed to lead a Clan after all. Merrill just tried to get all the knowledge in her head straight, because her mind wandered often.

But she was friends with Tamlen and Mahariel, both of whom were very interesting people. Mahariel did things like explore ancient ruins, and fight bears, and had a very dashing romance with Tamlen. They hunted together, and fought together, and once outran a grove of angry sylvans together.

Merrill read books, and then reread the books, and read them a third time to get the information to stick. With things that still didn’t stick, she’d rewrite the information over and over in the dirt because paper was expensive. She didn’t go to interesting places, she never fought interesting things, and she didn’t have anyone who was interested in her, let alone many friends.

It was mostly just Mahariel and Tamlen, and people were more interested in talking to them, than her.

Mahariel went to the Arlathvhen once because of her soulmark, to see if anyone else had any that matched. The original elvhen word for soulmark had been lost to time, as had many words. The common reconstruction Merrill had heard was ghilanshiral, guided journey, but some of the snickety elders would give you a cross look if they heard you using it.

Anyone with a soulmark showed up at the Arlathvhen, in hopes they’d find their missing half. Merrill was allowed to go despite lack of a soulmark, to see how things went, and because it was a good experience for a First. Mahariel flitted around, trying to find someone with a blue stylized heart over their, well, heart. There was even an expert there, already looking at someone from clan Lavellan, who had dark thorny vines crawling up his neck, and down on his upper back a skull of some kind of bird.

“The vine pattern you see here is reminiscent of Falon’din’s vallaslin,” the reader said to presumably his apprentice. “You can see by precise way the lines curve into thorns, but the artistry of the owl skull, while reminiscent of Dalish thought, is- well, not Dalish.”

“Mhm,” Lavellan said, giving the thousand yard stare.

And Merrill, like an idiot, said what wasn’t being said. “It looks kinda Tevinter doesn’t it?”

“Yes I know,” Lavellan said. “Can we not talk about it? You know what I’m just going to leave. Goodbye.”

“Sorry,” Merrill said more to Lavellan’s back than to Lavellan.

“Elgar’nan’s wrath, that’s rough,” Mahariel said. “Well, anyway, my turn.”

And she unceremoniously lowered her shirt. Merrill flushed, the apprentice flushed, but the reader didn’t, with the look of someone who had seen _so many_ breasts and butts that he could no longer be fazed.

“Dwarven,” the reader said immediately. “Blue heart of the stone. If you look closer, you can see intricate etchings around the heart; these vary. By the lack of any other particular symbols, I would guess either a surfacer dwarf, or a Casteless one. The imagery in the center of the heart—those particular line marks—usually indicates a mirrored surface, which could be either a literal mirror being important in some way, or a metaphorical mirror; the other is alike you in ways you could not expect.”

—

So of course, a literal mirror is what killed Mahariel. The Blight consumed her, and with that, whoever was on the other end of the line. The mirror was elvhen though, Merrill knew it, and true history that had been lost by the Warden’s blade. She kept a piece of Mahariel’s destiny when the Keeper wouldn’t, and then took up a spirit’s offer to learn magic she would need to fix it.

Marethari in turn thrust her on the first humans that came their way, and Merrill left for Kirkwall.

“I would say it is not so bad, but in truth it has been for me and my family, even if we found enough fortune to enter the city itself,” Hawke said. “But I give you my word, you shall not be alone.”

Hawke was beautiful, with a round face and gentle eyes, and hair that flowed just so in the wind. She had a scar across her upper cheek and brow, nice _strong_ arms, and even if the armor she wore was scavenged, it somehow made her seem like some kind of knight out of tales of old.

She also was a bit weird. Just, you know, just some weird things she did.

“I swear on everything I stand for, I will return your daughter to you,” Hawke would say, and she’d mean it, but it was just a weird way to phrase things.

Which directed her to someone who didn’t like her much but did have knowledge on some subjects.

“So is Hawke-?”

“Hawke’s human,” Anders said. “I had the same thought, but I checked. She’s just _like_ that.”

Anders was strange. He could be irritable and confrontational and was single-mindedly obsessed with his cause, but there was a peace to him. Merrill hadn’t the foggiest idea of why, what with all the chaos in Kirkwall, but one day when they were bathing off in a spring off the coast, the group figured it out.

“You okay?” Varric asked Anders, sitting on a rock instead of in the spring itself. “You are crackling a little.”

And he was, across his chest, but only there. Which was weird, because last time he crackled several people ended up dead, but they were Templars so Merrill wasn’t sure if they really counted.

Everyone else was in various states of undress (Fenris had refused to undress at all), and now that Anders wasn’t wearing his coat, Merrill noted a number of scars on Anders that she wanted to hear the story of. Mahariel had plenty herself, before she died, and she always made each one into a grand story. Merrill was still trying to figure out that art herself.

Anders smiled. “I’m fine. Believe it or not, this has been here for some time. Before Justice even,” he said, tracing the outline of glowing blue lines. “I’m sure you wouldn’t believe me, but we’re, well, soulmates.”

Hawke’s eyes widened. “Truly? I confess, I did not know spirits could have soulmates. Did he also have markings?”

“No, but spirits pick their shape,” Anders said. “So there never is a way to tell for them.”

Hawke looked fascinated with him, and why wouldn’t she be?

“You’re very lucky,” Merrrill said. “You don’t have to worry about your other dying now.”

“Yeah,” Anders said. “Kept me up at nights. I kept imagining some random peasant farmer for some reason, and every winter I got really nervous if this imaginary farmer had enough food to last until spring.”

“So you believe this?” Aveline asked Merrill skeptically.

“Can’t see why it’s not true,” Merrill said. “The world’s a fascinating place. All sorts of things happen.”

Anders actually smiled at Merrill at that, which was uncanny, but it wasn’t a bad look on him. No wonder he seemed fine with things; he had his soulmate with him, right there. They’d found and met and merged and were now on a grand mission. Why wouldn’t that bring peace?

He had _a_ soulmate at all.

Merrill knew, logically, it was fine that she didn’t have one. Having a soulbond was dangerous. But the thing was, a certain level of danger was exciting, and there was nothing about Merrill that was exciting at all.

“Anyone else have a soulmate?” Varric asked. “Out of curiosity.”

Silence fell.

“Good,” Fenris finally said. “As it is more akin to a curse than a blessing.”

“I actually would have agreed with you a year ago,” Anders said. “But, I got lucky.”

—

Hawke came by regularly to check on Merrill, as she had promised. Every three days, as sure as the setting sun. And, in time, Varric convinced people to meet on Thursday nights for talk and card games. Merrill was terrible at them, but not as terrible as Anders, and Isabela offered to give her private lessons to learn how to cheat at cards.

Merrill was just happy to be included. Hawke always seemed to glow with happiness when everyone was there, and the happiness would leak out onto everyone else. Even Fenris would sometimes cautiously smile around Hawke.

Who wouldn’t?

She was _wonderful._ Kind, and gentle, and had a good heart. And really, really strong arm muscles. She could probably benchpress Merrill, and that thought would make Merrill turn a strange pink.

Inevitably, the discussion turned to soulmates again.

“You said they are a curse, elf,” Varric said. He sat eye-to-eye with everyone, which meant of course he was using his special chair to allow him to do so. “You mind elaborating? I mean sure, it’s a risk, but I’ve seen some rather happy people come from it.”

Fenris snorted. “Then they are lucky indeed. For magisters—or many powerful nobles from other countries—being a soulmate to one _is_ a curse. Because then they have a weakness, someone whose death could very well kill them, and that is intolerable. A good number try to track down their soulmate only to lock them away in tiny prisons on the estate, where they will spend the rest of their lives in padded cells. Other magisters try some kind of magic, where they will murder their soulmate and use their death to fuel attempting to live through the process. It doesn’t always work, but it works often enough magisters will continue to try it.”

“Oh,” Varric said.

“Actually I’ve heard of this,” Anders said, for once in rare agreement with Fenris. “There was a young apprentice, Surana, who had one. Turns out her soulmate was some noble in I think Ostwick? He made a ‘contribution’ to the Circle, so they made Surana Tranquil first before shipping her off to him.”

“The fuck,” Varric said.

“Anyone have any happy stories about soulmates?” Isabela asked. “I need a cleanser.”

“Well, in the Dalish, the old stories say it was because of Falon’din and Dirthamen, who were very close,” Merrill said. She liked sharing her culture, even if Fenris rolled his eyes at it. Hawke however turned a very attentive face to her which for some reason sent pleasant shivers down Merrill’s neck.

“It’s, um, said they were the first two soulmates, bound and linked in each other, and others followed in their suit. There’s connotations your soulmate is someone important to you in some way, covering for your weaknesses, encouraging your strengths, guiding you down the right path, that sort of thing. Of course, the two, Falon’din and Dirthamen, are supposed to be seen as a model for how you treat your soulmate, but, um. There’s not a lot of surviving lore on how Falon’din and Dirthamen really related to each other? A good number of the clans think they were twins, and another solid chunk think they were actually lovers, and then a small portion think they were just really good friends.”

Merrill took a sip of beer and felt her nose tingle. "So there's, hm, some healthy debate about it."

“Well in Orzammar, they think it’s a conjoined thing,” Varric said. “Like how you have cows with two heads sometimes; that sort of thing. You have a branch of lyrium that splits into two but it’s essentially the same branch. Like that, but with people. Apparently the politics get weird when people end up soulmates with different Castes, or worse, a surfacer, though mostly I only hear about dwarves being soulmates with other dwarves.”

“Oh it happens,” Merrill said. “Mahariel was soulmates with a dwarf, but. She died, before she could find out who. So.”

“Sounds like a curse to me,” Fenris said.

“Now we are back to curses again,” Isabela sighed.

“There’s this Orth tribe that thinks your soulmate is your evil doppelganger,” Anders said cheerfully. “If you meet them, one of you will soon die, but if you kill them in a specific way you’ll survive.”

Varric gave Hawke a glance. “Any thoughts, Waffles?”

“I knew a Chantry sister with a soulmark,” Hawke said. “Shortly before we left Lothering, a peace unlike any I had ever seen fell upon her, and she privately told me the Maker told her that her soulmate would soon be arriving.”

“Isn’t that technically heresy?” Anders asked.

“I suppose, but she seemed so certain,” Hawke said, almost wistfully. “I wished her well. I like to think she found whoever they might be.”

—

Here is what Merrill did for three years: attempt to by hand remake a mirror. She talked with Hawke when Hawke came over, and did anything Hawke needed doing because it got her out of her house, and she wished she was interesting enough that she could find adventure without Hawke.

Not that Hawke wasn’t just the nicest person in Thedas, but. It only highlighted how much nothing happened to Merrill without Hawke. Anders was a Grey Warden renegade apostate who was bound to his own soulmate; Fenris was, well, tragic, but an escaped slave who recently killed one of his greatest tormentors (soon hopefully to kill the other) and was infused with lyrium; Varric was a crimelord and published author who wove stories and could afford so many books that it made Merrill almost feel ashamed of how few her Clan had had; Isabela was a dashing real-life pirate who got into duels and sailed the seas; and Aveline was really tall.

Merrill didn’t leave her house much, and when she did, she got lost.

She tried talking to her neighbors, but they were distant to her, and Merrill couldn’t find out why. She tried sharing bits of Dalish culture with them, but people would quiet if she did, and few would show up.

She stuck with it though. They were good people, and if she were them she’d be interested in her lost culture. She tried to remain positive about it. There were a few who were interested! That wasn’t nothing.

Mostly, she obsessed over the mirror. Constructing it piece by piece, learning how to shape wood through repeatedly failing to shape wood. That was certainly a year and a half she spent. Nothing but shaping wood. She cut herself so many times that her fingers were littered with scars now. Didn’t matter if she made a deal with a spirit; that mirror would have been a blood magic mirror regardless.

Isabela would talk about the latest duel she had gotten into. Anders about the many lives he had saved. Varric about the novels he’d written, was writing, how he was turning everything they did into some grand adventure with of course Hawke as centerpiece because she already acted like she’d stepped straight out of legend.

Meanwhile Merrill would have been carving. Again. And would say as much, and then most of the people would nod and look away.

“Well, what progress have you made?” Hawke would ask. “You mentioned last week that you’ve been practicing on smaller pieces. Have you made anything new?”

It was a nicety. As if Hawke cared. Hawke, who could fall into a building and find five evil plots and the leader of the Carta.

But she had asked. And it’d be rude not to answer.

“Well,” Merrill said slowly, and pulled out a wooden dog. Hawke’s eyes widened. “I’ve been working on him. I’m trying to model him after your mabari. It’s slow going. Ears are so hard.”

“Why can’t you whittle a cat like a normal person?” Anders had asked when she had shown him earlier, but even that made her feel a little better for some reason. A sign of interest.

She just. Didn’t know what to do with it. Whether it was genuine or feigned.

“If my Clan was willing to help me, I wouldn’t need to learn woodcarving myself,” Merrill said, staring down at the small wooden dog.

“It is a good skill,” Hawke said, patting her on the shoulder. “No learning is ever wasted. I am excited to see what you make next.”

She always managed to sound like she meant it, too.

—

Hawke continued to listen. Patiently, about the mirror. Offered any help she could do. Offered to talk to Marethari for her. Did in fact talk to Marethari for her, but also encouraged her to stand up for herself. Handed her over the arulin’holm even when others tried telling her it was a bad idea.

She trusted her. Merrill hadn’t really had people who trusted in her before, and she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Well, other than starting woodcarving all over again this time with the proper instrument, but she was giving herself a few weeks off as a break because when she first realized her error she had screamed into a pillow for half an hour.

There was, sometimes, a bitter flavor about it, with Marethari. That she’d listen to some shemlen over her own First. That she’d go to such lengths for Feyneril, because Hawke, a human, asked her to, but Merril and Arianni weren’t worth on their own the same consideration. All the while cloaking herself with that aura of importance, of authority.

She didn’t like feeling bitter. She’d rather focus on the mirror. And Hawke was so nice that she’d feel bad for feeling bitter in the first place.

“You have such great talent, Merrill,” Hawke said, almost shyly. “It is a shame your Keeper cannot see the truth of the matter. I cannot say for a fact that I know the eluvian is elvhen in make, as I do not know enough about elvhen artifacts to know one way or another. But I believe in your knowledge and expertise; if you think it’s elvhen, then I believe it so. And figuring out some great mystery sounds a worthwhile pursuit.”

“You aren’t worried it’s going to turn out to be some evil cursed object?” Merrrill asked, a bit of bitterness in her tone.

“Not if you make it,” Hawke said. “Everything you make is beautiful.”

It was heartwarming, Hawke’s trust in her. It made Merrill feel light. Floaty.

But really.

“Are you _sure_ she’s not a spirit of, like, Honor or something?” Merrill asked Anders at his clinic.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Anders said. “Embrium next to your elbow, hand that over- thank you.”

Anders paused for a moment in his grinding, before giving her a look. “She _really_ likes you.”

Merrill flushed. “I don’t see why,” she muttered into her cutting. She’d gotten a lot better at it by now, and it was easier not to accidentally nick herself.

“Honestly, I don’t either,” Anders said, because he was a very rude person. And, weirdly, Merrill preferred it over Aveline. Aveline would think rude things and not say some of them, so you never knew if she was thinking rude things and simply not telling you. Anders would tell you exactly what he thought. It might not be kind, but with his stupidly blunt honesty, Merrill knew exactly where she stood with him.

It wasn’t in a good place, but it wasn’t in a particularly bad one. There had been a rocky start, and things were still some level of rocky, but being one of the few people to believe that Justice was Anders’ soulmate had smoothed out some of their problems. Or his problems, at least.

Merrill still frowned at him, before he gave her a look in return. “But she does like you. So. Are you planning on doing anything about that? Do you like her back?”

Merrill stared at him. “She’s magnificent,” she finally said. “She’s like a character stepped right out of a legend. She’s so strong, and graceful, and never trips over her words. And she makes you feel like you’re interesting somehow. Who wouldn’t like her?”

“I mean romantically,” Anders said.

Merrill blushed. “Oh. I don’t- it’s complicated.”

Because with Hawke- Hawke wasn’t Dalish. If Merrill went for Hawke, then that would be the final nail in leaving the Dalish, truly never returning to them. And yes, there were Dalish who didn’t live in a Clan, wandering Keepers, spies, the like, but that wasn’t Merrill. Merrill was in exile, and theoretically if she could solve the mirror...

But Hawke was the only person who had ever truly supported her over the mirror. Who asked weekly, as sure as the setting sun, how it was going, what her latest theories were, and so on.

“I don’t know what she sees in me,” she finally said, because that was true as well.

“This might be a wild thing to try, but you could ask her,” Anders said, with a raise of his eyebrows.

“What if she thinks I’m boring?” Merrill asked.

Anders put down his mortar and pestle. “I’m boring, and I found someone. I’m sure you can too.”

“You are not boring,” Merrill said crossly. “You are involved in mage underground activities and possessed by your soulmate and beloved by Darktown and a great healer.”

“Yeah, healing,” Anders said. “Healing the same infected leg, over and over. Trying to break people out of the Gallows, again. Arguing with people about mage rights, and people don’t like to listen to someone continue to talk about mage rights. They are tired, and they want it to be over, but surprise as long as atrocities continue it’s never over. I used to be an interesting person, and then I decided to become a revolutionary, and now people don’t like talking to me.”

Anders then gave her a slight smile. “But then, ‘boring’ is all in the eye of the beholder, right? You think you are boring, obviously Hawke disagrees or she wouldn’t talk to you.”

Merrill sighed. “It’d just- it’d be nice if I knew for certain. If there was a sign. Like, say, a soulmark that made it obvious. And yes, I know, Fenris has talked to death how it can just as well be a curse, but. Obviously it isn’t always. Some people get to have more. You get to have more.”

Anders was silent for a while, brow creased in thought. “Consider this. Perhaps I was fated to find someone. Perhaps our love was on a path before we met. But the beauty of love is in how varied it can be. That love _isn’t_ the same from relationship to relationship. Perhaps you don’t have some fated romance, but in another light, does that not mean the love you find is all the more worthy? Out of next to nothing, you’ve grown something beautiful. You would be a fool to abandon a work of art simply because it does not resemble another one you once saw.”

He picked up his tools and started working again. “If you are truly curious what she sees in you, ask her.”

—

“Has the arulin’holm been of any use so far?” Hawke asked curiously.

“A bit,” Merrill said. “It’s slow going, and I need to once again find that much wood. I think I might take a walk out of Kirkwall in a few days and just return with some trees. Not making them walk of course, not around Templars, but maybe in a cart. A neighbor agreed to lend me his if I make him some spoons.”

Hawke smiled then, a lovely thing that lit up her eyes. “You always somehow stay positive. I am not sure how you do that in these dark times, but it is a beacon.”

Merrill hesitated for a moment, but the questions burned through her. She appreciated Anders’ honesty; she liked knowing what people thought. If it was bad, then it was better to know. “Do you think I’m interesting?”

Hawke blinked. “I- why would I not?”

“I don’t feel interesting,” Merrill said, sounding pathetic in her own ears.

Hawke gave her an odd look. “You are attempting to recreate an ancient elvhen artifact by hand, alone, with no assistants. You have so far _purified_ a shard of lyrium of apparently the Blight itself, a feat unheard of. You are a wellspring of knowledge about so many topics, and I am truly honored that you decide to share your culture with us. And beyond that, you-”

And Hawke, for once in her life, faltered at the words. One of her hands reached out and delicately tucked a lock of Merrill’s hair behind her ear. “You are a gift to be around. You and Varric—but in different ways—manage to make the strange and at times distressing events of my life into something seemingly grand. I feel happier around you, but I do not wish to pull you away from your work more than you are willing to spare.”

“You help a lot,” Merrill said. “Just- having anyone who is interested, at all, who believes in me.”

“You are a very interesting person,” Hawke said. “I have known you for three years now, and I am constantly finding new things to be interested by.”

Be brave Merrill. You can do this.

“What kind of interesting?” she asked, trying to go for coy. She wasn’t sure if she got it. Isabela had given her a talk, but Isabela tended to have some strange mixed metaphors that could be hard to follow.

“Ah- well- _respectfully_ it is not just your mind that is attractive, but I do not know, it has been three years? How long is a mo- normal amount of time to admit such things? I have never been clear on the subject.”

Hawke hesitated, so Merrill, in a rush of determination, closed the gap between them with a kiss.

It was good. It wasn’t earth-shattering. It didn’t remake her world. But it was good, and warm, and she could feel Hawke’s breath, her weirdly dry lips. Embracing let her feel Hawke’s amazing muscles, as well as the gentle pulse of life within her.

Probably not a spirit.

They parted, and Merrill felt good about herself.

“I would not mind if we did that again,” Hawke said, flushing slightly.

“I don’t mind spending time with you,” Merrill said, snuggling into her embrace. “We could always go out for other things.”

“I will remember that,” Hawke said cheerfully. “Though again, and I shall tell you as many times as you wish to hear it, I will always find you interesting, no matter what you do.”

Around Hawke, Merrill was almost starting to believe it.


End file.
